Picnic
by CatalynMJ1015
Summary: Sierra Leone, August 1958. After several days apart, Peter plans a surprise for Camilla. Little does the constable know, he's in for a surprise too...


Whenever Camilla left Freetown on outreach, Peter stopped by the mission daily- sometimes twice a day- for updates. Yesterday a telegram came from Njama saying they had a toxemia patient. It asked George, the mission's handyman and sometimes driver, to bring a laundry list of medications and equipment.

Peter had yet to accompany Camilla into the Sierra Leonean interior. Outreach trips lasted a week or more; he couldn't take that much time away from his own work. But George would only stay in Njama for a night at most before returning to Freetown. Now was Peter's chance.

They left at sunrise. Njama was only 130 miles away, but George told Peter they needed plenty of time to possibly reroute and still reach the village by nightfall.

"You never know what you'll find on the highway. Self-appointed 'toll collectors', elephant crossings… Mudslides too, this time of year…"

George sounded quite serious in his forecast. But then, he'd sounded serious about the lions, too.

Back in April, the Reverend Appleby-Thornton had taken the Noakes on an "introductory tour" of some nearby villages. George and his family had come along. They'd camped out one night, not from necessity, but to enjoy the cool night winds off the Sahara. George and his children had tried to spook the Noakes with harrowing tales of staring down the whites of a lion's eyes. Peter had bought it, too. But Camilla was far too sensible.

"Great Jehoshaphat! That sounds frightfully exciting, rather. I do want to hear how you all survived. But surely we'll have no feline visitors tonight? We're in close proximity to a village; we have a jolly good campfire and plenty of guns. We'd be safe from the tigers of Rajputana, at any rate."

"The _tigers?_ Of _where?_" the children had gaped, while George laughed. He'd never seen a newcomer to Africa turn the tables on them!

The trip to Njama was mercifully uneventful. They pulled up to the small mud-brick clinic at half-past ten. George thrust the hold-all into Peter's hands, practically kicking him out of the old Land Rover.

"You go! Say hello to your lovely wife."

But it wasn't Camilla who came to the clinic door: it was Sister Catherine. The Liberian native went on the Sisters' every outreach trip, to translate for her Western colleagues and keep them out of foolish dangers. She was a dour, intimidating woman. But Peter was grateful for her protectiveness towards Camilla. She reminded him of another nun he knew, a continent away.

"You!" she scoffed. "I thought we sent for George."

"We both came," Peter explained. "Is Camilla here?"

"Of course she is. She is showing the local midwife how to care for the toxemia patient after we leave. I am translating, as the midwife only speaks Mende. We need peace and quiet and no interruptions- our patient most of all."

Peter's stomach rumbled. He thought of how hungry Camilla got after a long morning's work- especially these days. "Are we having lunch here?"

Sister Catherine's nostrils flared. "You came all this way to ask me for _lunch?_ Do I look like Adama?"

(George's wife Adama was the Freetown mission's cook.) "No," Peter mumbled.

"We make ourselves lunch back at the hostel. George knows where it is. Meet us there at noon. And if you want a helping, you be prepared to stir the rice pot. That's not my orders but the apostle Paul's." She nodded curtly and grabbed the proffered hold-all. "Thank you for this. I must get back. Goodbye."

Peter rolled his eyes as he turned away. George was laughing- from a cautious distance. Like most West African men, George's deference for 'women's matters' made Englishmen look downright nosy by comparison.

"Njama has a very good market. Shall we go there while we wait?" George asked.

Peter had an idea. "Let's go. But we're not just waiting."

They walked the short distance to the market. George called cheerful greetings to the many children- and even some adults- who stared at his white walking companion. They perused the food stalls. Peter bought fresh mango and papaya, fried plantains and cassava, lamb kebabs, roasted peanuts, bread and butter. And two large bottles of poyo, of course. He and George soon had trouble carrying it all.

Then he spotted the lappa vendor's stall. A large cloth hung up on display; it was block-printed in leaves and flowers, in greens and blues and browns. Just Camilla's style. It occurred to Peter that it was very pleasant weather, for August in Sierra Leone. The rain had stopped, the humidity lifted somewhat. Patches of rich, tropical blue sky peeked through the clouds.

His big idea suddenly took shape as a picnic.

They bundled the food in the lappa cloth and headed back to the clinic. There was an unoccupied bush willow in a nearby commons. Peter and George spread the cloth beneath the tree and laid out their feast.

"We must find a chair for Mrs. Noakes," George said.

Peter shook his head. "She won't like sitting above everyone else. Besides, I can help her down to the blanket. She's not that far along."

"Eh? Just how far along _is _she?"

"Six months next week. But she doesn't look it- I think 'cos she's a bit on the tall side."

George tut-tutted at the naïve young _polis. _"I will go and find a chair."

George set off, while Peter stood and guarded their feast. A moment later, he heard his wife's voice behind him:

"Gosh. I may have quite the appetite these days, but surely this is a tad excessive?"

"It's for the four of us," Peter grinned as he turned around. He saw Camilla- and his heart leapt.

Their week apart may as well have been a month, for how much she seemed to have grown. There was a new sway to her walk. He recognized that blouse; she'd made it just last month. She'd cut the pattern roomy at the time. Now some of the buttons were almost straining, over both her belly and her breasts. The sight filled Peter with delight- and desire.

"You look… you look well," he fumbled.

They drew close. Peter was almost shy as he placed his hands on her stomach.

"You're looking well too, Little Bean."

The baby gave a long, swooping kick beneath his hands. Both parents chuckled. Camilla beamed down at her husband and child. Even in the rainy season, the tropical sun was having its way with her coloring. It complemented the hormonal changes quite nicely. She glowed with both expectant joy and a tan. Her hair was the thickest Peter had ever seen it, and tinged with lighter, honeyed tones. Africa suited her very well, indeed.

"Just our luck," she smiled. "All those weeks of standing before the mirror in our flat, and I've 'popped' while away."

"You look wonderful," he blurted. For once she didn't argue or 'oh tosh' him. In fact, she looked quite proud as she cradled her rounded middle. Which only stirred him more.

"No more mistaking Baby for an overfondness for coconut cake. I daresay I've been promoted. Yesterday a stranger in the market called me, not _boku uman, _but _bele uman._"

"_Belly woman?_" Peter repeated incredulously. "Is that really what they call it?"

"It does lack a certain subtlety. But it's rather intended as a compliment."

"I should hope so. I don't fancy more wrestling matches in your honor." He hastily added: "I'd do it, though, if that's what it came to."

"I know you would," she murmured.

She pulled him closer, tipping his chin up with her finger. They kissed longer and deeper than was really polite in a village commons. Peter made up his mind to stay the night in Njama- even if George didn't. He didn't care if he and Camilla never got back to Freetown. He wouldn't have cared if they were on the moon.

He traced his fingers down her neck; she moaned quietly. He roamed over her collarbones and under the collar of her blouse; her moan turned to a squeal. She arched back, using Bean as a buffer. But Peter could tell the squeal was not an unhappy one. Two telltale signs beneath her light linen blouse gave away her pleasure.

"Oh! Peter! I'm sorry, but no," she pouted. "People are watching."

"People always watch us here."

"Yes I know, but Sister Catherine will be here any minute…"

He shuddered. "Good point. You, erm, you must be hungry."

"Absolutely ravenous," she confessed.

He stepped aside and gestured towards the lappa beneath the bush willow.

"A picnic? Peter, what a splendid idea! No slaving over the hostel's cookfire today! And how did you know I've been craving fried cassava?"

Peter knelt on the cloth and stretched out his arms. She leaned her hands into his and tried to ease herself down. Her smile turned to a wince. She straightened and rubbed her hip.

"Gosh. I'm afraid we'll need a chair…"


End file.
